


Were it not that I have bad dreams

by Nary



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Magic, No Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-16
Updated: 2010-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 23:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgana still has nightmares, but Merlin watches over her each night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Were it not that I have bad dreams

Morgana lies asleep, pale skin dappled silver in the moonlight. She's dreaming now; her breath catches in her throat before sighing out softly, and she shivers, not from cold. Merlin both longs to know what she sees and dreads it, for he has often seen her in the aftermath of her visions, eyes sightless with horror, as if they reject the light itself.

It used to be Gwen who would comfort her when the dreams were at their worst, but Gwen sleeps at Arthur's side now, so Merlin does what he can for her instead. So far, though, nothing he's tried has been able to take the burden of those dreams from her, or even lessen it. So he sits by her side, reading or sometimes dozing, and waits for her screams.

From unspoken agreement, he has never touched her - not because they don't want it, but because they both fear what might come of it, what depth of power would be born between them. Instead he speaks to her, low and calm and gentle, from across the room, until finally she stills. He wonders if she's seen their coupling in her fever-dreams, if sometimes those visions are what wake her, breathless and terrified.

She normally sleeps bare. He averts his eyes while she disrobes, as he always does, but she is unashamed as ever when she crawls into her too-big, too-empty bed. Another man might take it as an invitation, but Merlin keeps himself under control and licks his thumb to turn the page of the book he's not really reading.

"Good night," she says, and he nods back, unable to speak without saying something that would sound stupid or suggestive. He's learned when to keep silent, at least, and somehow it makes people think he's wise. He still finds that amazing, as improbable as he would once have found it if someone had told him that he would spend his nights (long, aching nights) watching the Lady Morgana toss and turn naked between her sheets.

A moth flutters across her, brushing softly against her perfect breast, and Merlin mouths the words that make those velvet wings his own, caressing her without hands. She twists, langourous, and moans in her sleep. If he knew how, he would make himself the breeze that stiffens her nipples, the silk and fur crushed beneath her weight, the droplets of sweat that bead in the hollow of her throat, the gasp of air that surges from her lips as she wakes.


End file.
